


Crow

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 21:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8464279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The king’s away, so the messenger waits in the hot springs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They treat him respectfully enough, even though he has no proper title to give—the best he can boast is ‘captain of the guard.’ An elf with long, copper hair and high cheekbones introduces herself as the Mirkwood equivalent and informs him that the king is out. Perhaps if Faramir’s father had come, or even his elder brother, the Elf King would’ve made a point of being home. Faramir nods his understanding and retreats from the empty throne room, past the guest quarters offered to him, and down to the fabled hot springs—a party of elves in the woods told him of this, and he’s been looking forward to it since: a warm bath is always pleasant after a too-long journey.

The caverns under the palace aren’t as dark as he would expect. They’re carved into the rock, nestled down below the earth, with only the roots of trees along the ceiling showing any sign of wood. Glowing lanterns line the walls in lieu of windows, and their radiance is more than enough. Faramir crosses the front of the large, open space littered with little, half-occupied pools, to the only other door: what he assumes must be the changing room. The elf had directed him here. Sure enough, the room on the other side has only solid ground, a bench, a large cabinet with open cubby spaces, and several pegs lining the walls. Faramir spends a moment searching for more—perhaps robes or towels—and deduces he must be meant to go in the nude. He didn’t look long enough at any of the elves on the way in to see an example. This is another reason why he would’ve liked to bring others with him—perhaps one of Imrahil’s people, who have more knowledge of elves—but alas, Denethor rarely deems Faramir worth guards. He’s come alone, with a sealed letter he neither knows the contents of nor can deliver until the king returns, and distinctly feels of as little purpose as his father thinks him.

But that train of thought never gets him anywhere, and he tries to dismiss it. He settles onto the bench against the wall to tug off his boots and hopes his dirty feet won’t offend his Elven hosts. Despite their woodland home, they appear immaculate.

He’s just finished with his second boot when the door creaks open, and a new elf slips inside. Faramir automatically ducks his head in greeting, but when he tries to say more, the words die on his tongue.

The elf shuts the door behind himself, steps fully into the room, and fixes Faramir with a level stare that would put Denethor’s to shame. 

He’s _beautiful_. Wholly, undeniably beautiful, more than anyone or anything Faramir’s ever seen. Most of the elves of Mirkwood have been attractive in one way or another, but this man puts them all to shame. His slender frame, cloaked in shimmering silver robes, seems to go on forever. His white-gold hair is almost as long, cascading in soft waves down his broad shoulders and back. His jaw is strong, his eyes clear as rare gems. Faramir finally regains himself enough to say, “Excuse me.”

The elf lifts one dark brow, contrasting sharply to his pale hair, and Faramir flushes and wishes he’d said nothing at all. He’d meant to pardon his own intrusion here—he’s now acutely aware of just how much he sticks out in such an extraordinary place. 

But the elf says nothing of Faramir’s foolishness, and instead comes to face one of the pegs. As his elegant fingers begin to untwist the clasp of his collar, he asks in a deep voice, “What is a mortal man doing in these halls?”

Apparently, elves don’t gossip like men—if an elf where to appear in Gondor, most would know at once. Perhaps it’s true that elves have little interest in the mortal lot. Faramir forces himself to look away, even though he wants to _stare_ , as the elf smoothly draws open his robes. “I... I am Faramir, son of Denethor, the steward of Gondor. I came with a message from my father for the king, but I was informed he was out. ...Forgive me, but I was told it would be alright for me to visit these springs.”

“You were not told wrong,” the elf informs him, which gives Faramir a quick exhale of relief. He pauses to pull his tunic over his head but hesitates with his breeches. The elf’s robes slink nearly to the floor, caught in ready hands, and the movement instantly draws Faramir’s eye, then catches his breath. The elf hangs his robes on the peg, then turns to Faramir, completely bare. It takes every ounce of self-control that Faramir has to lift his eyes to the elf’s face and not stray lower. “However, there is another spring that is superior to those you passed. Will you join me?”

Faramir nods without thinking. He’s not sure he could deny this elf anything, certainly not when said elf is nude. The elf’s eyes flickering obviously to Faramir’s breaches, and Faramir tries not to feel self-conscious as he unfastens them and stands up again. He’s not quite as well-endowed as the elf, or at least, surmises that from the one quick glance he allows himself, nor is he as toned—he’s trained all his life, and yet this elf’s trim figure seems to have been sculpted from stone. There’s nothing Faramir can compete with. But the elf gives Faramir a look that could only be approval, and one side of his bowed lips curves upward in a grin. It’s only the smallest gesture, and yet Faramir’s never felt so flattered.

He’s suddenly grateful to be the one that Denethor sends on servants’ errands. It’s worth the long ride. 

The elf guides him to the back of the room, and Faramir studiously follows, out into a shallow chamber lined with other doors. The air is crisp and warm, the stone strangely smooth beneath his feet. The elf opens the far door and ushers Faramir in. When the door’s shut behind them, an array of lanterns flicker on as though summoned by magic, dotting the ceiling in glowing lights that almost look like stars. The center of the room holds a large spring, perhaps the length of two men. The water inside is translucent and bubbling, clearly portending of heat.

“A private area,” the elf announces as he sweeps around Faramir. He looks back in time to catch Faramir’s rush of worry—he doesn’t want to intrude anywhere he isn’t welcome—but the elf chuckles, “I am allowed, I assure you. And I am entitled to any visitors I should wish.”

Faramir says, “I am honoured,” and wishes he had a name to add onto the end. Now he’s waited too long, and he’s not sure if he should ask. Perhaps the elf has reason for not introducing himself, or perhaps it isn’t the custom of elves to do so. Faramir knows so very little of this world. 

The elf slips into the spring with practiced grace, depriving Faramir of the view he wishes he’d observed more. It leaves him all too aware of his own nakedness, and he hurries to join, stepping into the water more carefully. He finds a ledge around the brim, the perfect height to sit on, and settles next to the elf. The water licks at his upper torso, pressure-made bubbles wafting all around him. The water is as warm as he expected, but the feeling is better than he imagined. Gondor has few such natural wonders, and none molded into such ethereal delights. The elves must have shaped this pool, formed the underwater bench, and their lights give the room an enchanting, intimate feel. The elf slides closer still, until Faramir can feel the press of his legs under the water, their hips touching. The elf’s skin is alluringly soft. The elf lifts hands to draw up his hair, the ends already died darker in their dampness, and wraps it into an elaborate, endearingly disordered bun atop his head. Then he extends one arm around the rim of the pool, behind Faramir’s shoulders, and gives him a charming smile.

“You road all the way from Gondor, then?” the elf asks, to which Faramir can only nod. Despite the humidity, his throat’s gone dry. Even with just his top half visible, the elf is a visual trap; once Faramir is looking, he can’t look away. It amazes him that a creature this unabashedly _gorgeous_ would spare him the time of day, let alone sidle up to him in a private hot spring. He sees the hunger coming into the elf’s eyes and thinks he must be imagining it. The elf purrs, “You must be tired. Have you been given proper quarters?”

Faramir nods again. He tries to make himself talk, to not stare like a fool, and manages, “The people here are most... accommodating.” The elf smiles; obviously, that was the right thing to say. Faramir continues, somewhat abashedly admitting, “The rooms I was given for my stay are grander than my own in Gondor. Surely, the Elf King is a generous host, even in his absence.”

The elf lets out a short, deep chuckle that makes Faramir’s stomach do strange things. The elf’s arm slides closer, his fingers wrapping around Faramir’s arm to lightly trace his bicep. The contact is both warm and wet and thoroughly exhilarating. The elf’s gaze is intoxicating. He muses, “Surely, if he had known the messenger headed for his halls was so handsome, he would have rescheduled his hunt.”

 _Handsome_. Faramir can hardly believe what he’s hearing. The elf leans conspicuously over, and suddenly Faramir can feel another hand at his knee, tracing idly up his thigh—his breath hitches, but he does nothing to dislodge it. When the elf’s face hovers just before Faramir’s, the elf purrs, “Perhaps the king, who is indeed _very_ generous, could offer you grander quarters still. There is rumour that he enjoys certain... foreign delicacies... you know...”

Faramir never heard such rumours. But then, he knows almost nothing of elves. And he doesn’t understand why this elf, who’s so easily seducing him, would mention another elf’s bed. It occurs to him that there’s a game being played here, one he’s shying from like a frightened child rather than the full-grown, lust-filled man he is. He answers with more confidence than he feels, “I am not sure I would wish for another of your kind at the moment, even if I did presume to be worthy of a king’s attentions.”

The elf grins as though Faramir’s said something particularly amusing. He counters, “Are you quite sure? He is incomparably handsome, you know. There is not an elf in this kingdom who does not wish that very honour I have suggested of you.”

Put in the awkward spot of not wanting to choose another but not wanting to insult someone’s king, Faramir diverts. “Even you?”

The elf’s grin stretches all the wider, and he wryly answers, “Indeed, I have often felt pleasure at the thought of his body.”

Perhaps, Faramir thinks through his confusion, this elf is a recruiter, meant to draw visitors into the king’s harem. But all Faramir wants right now is to close the distance between them. The elf’s one hand tightens around Faramir’s shoulder, the second slipping between Faramir’s legs and over Faramir’s inner thigh, right up to the crook of his body—when the elf’s knuckles brush along Faramir’s hard shaft, he hisses, barely catching himself from bucking forward. The elf keeps his hand there, tantalizingly close but not close enough. It takes everything Faramir has not to bring their mouths together. The elf looks like he’ll close the distance himself at any minute, but first squeezes Faramir’s thigh and eyes Faramir’s lips, murmuring, “My people are not so strict as yours, Son of Gondor. A king may lie with whomever he wishes, and all wish it in return...”

Faramir can’t take the teasing. He starts to move, going forward, about to smash them together—

But the door opens across the room, and he freezes where he is. He doesn’t know what the protocols are here, but he’s private by nature, and besides, the elf pulls back to eye their visitor. The elf’s smile has evaporated, and now he wears the same stern look he did when he first entered the changing room. 

A brown-haired elf steps into the room, bows at the waist, and announces, “Apologizes—I was not aware you would come here first, my king. I must inform you that a messenger from the south has arri—” but here he straightens again, spots Faramir, and pauses. 

The first elf, who Faramir looks back at in shock, casually drawls, “Thank you, Feren. That will be all.”

And Feren nods his head again and hurries out, as though it’s perfectly normal to catch his king seducing a man in the bath. 

Faramir repeats hoarsely, “ _King?_ ”

“You may call me Thranduil,” the king returns, a proud smirk back on his perfect face. Though he’s no longer hovering just before Faramir, his hand back to Faramir’s knee instead of thigh, he’s still _too close_ , his arm still around Faramir’s shoulders. He purrs, “Now, is the Elf King’s beauty truly not enough to sway you?”

Faramir opens and closes his mouth twice before he manages, “The Elf King’s beauty is as staggering as his wit.” Thranduil laughs. This time, when he leans in, Faramir forgets the matter of worthiness, and he leans right on back.


End file.
